


surprisingly, there was life somewhere inside me

by cassillda



Category: Kagerou Project
Genre: F/M, Gen, it's only a little setomary apologies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-22
Updated: 2014-07-22
Packaged: 2018-02-09 23:02:22
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 830
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2001324
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cassillda/pseuds/cassillda
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Series of Setomary drabbles. The two of them spend time together in Mary’s cottage as the seasons pass.</p>
            </blockquote>





	surprisingly, there was life somewhere inside me

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Souzou Forest’s anniversary originally, then touched up for Mary's birthday; based on a slight headcanon that they corresponded semi-regularly before she was invited to live with him.

“I’ll come back soon,” the boy says as he begins to close the cottage door behind him, sparing one last glance to be sure she’s secure. His voice and eyes shine full of cheer like her own in seasons past, coaxed out by the voice of her mother.

How many, exactly, had it been since she last heard that voice?  Mary counts the springs and summers by the growth of flowers from outside her window. The hundredth bloom since her mother’s disappearance must have passed ten, twenty, thirty, forty blooms prior to this one, she thinks. It’s been _forever_.

She doesn’t dare go out to tend to them. It’s best for a monster to stay in its dungeon.

* * *

Some evenings, when the birds have gone quiet, the house creaks. Thoughtlessly expectant, her eyes dart from her book to the doorway, and she waits with held breath for what seems like hours.

But Kozakura Mary, descendant of the Medusa from fairy tales, is beyond blind optimism. There is one person, as certain as her lineage and white hair and red eyes, that could never be at that door.

She’s beyond optimism. But she hopes, pinprick-small and slight, that he keeps his promise.

* * *

 His coat is white.

Even with its heavy hood, Mary finds it’s just slightly snug on her. It felt much larger seasons ago, draped over her with that boy on the other end – but the cold seeps into her home at night as the blooms begin to fade. Some nights the tea doesn’t warm her – not _enough_. It would be much easier, she thinks, slow and sluggish on the floor, to just sleep. She’ll be scolded later, but Mother will put her to bed if she stays here. She always did.

She always would, if Mary only stayed where she was. But she has always been disobedient, and her fingers curl tight around white cotton as she drags herself to bed. First, she has to return this coat.

He would _have_ to come back if he wanted to see it again.

* * *

 The boy, who kept his promise after all, is named _Seto_.

At first, Mary thinks he’s around her age. She made the assumption a little thoughtlessly when they first met, based on his height. A tiny person must be tiny just as she is, of course – but the more time he spends under her gaze, the more apparent their gap becomes. Seto is nothing like her. (Of course not. He keeps his promises.) His hair is short and dark, his eyebrows prominent, his eyes…

Still as bright as they have been every season, but not red. Not _anymore_. Something, somehow, has changed within him. Even from her limited experience, his appearance is every bit a human’s. Mary is still taller, but his life outside has left him healthier and stronger – standing on a stool, he gathers books from the top shelf when he visits, without stumbling or tripping. It’s amazing, Mary thinks, how capable he is. Compared to her…

“S-Sorry,” She mumbles then jumps, hair puffing up, startled at the sound of her own voice. Seto smiles, kind and forgiving and brilliant like she hasn’t seen in the past hundred springs.

Struck by his eyes, their color and the way they crinkle at the corners, Mary wonders if she could change too.

* * *

The heroes in the stories Seto tells her are no different from the books she reads, and she glowers. That she could make an effort to hide it is lost on her. Mary hates these stories and their detestable truths, black and white like the illustrations. No room to argue absolutes. Heroes are heroes and monsters are monsters, as simple and consistent as the fragrance and sweetness of herbal tea, or a mother’s warm arms carrying you to bed.

His coat feels tighter on her when she crosses her arms, and a duller boy would’ve thought it was the cold.

But he is always quick to notice – flustered, he turns the page. The picture drawn across the paper is roughly man-shaped, with a flowing scarf. Mary’s eyes go wide at his explanation.

Red is the color of a _hero_.

* * *

It is spring again.

Seto has long since replaced his coat with a new one. It's green like the grass and leaves outside her window, and covers his body from head to toe – but he stands out even still, visible from her favorite, sunlit spot at the table. She wanted to beat him to the punch. It was supposed to be a surprise; stumbling over herself, she runs for the old stool.

Seto lets himself in. In a single, seamless motion like she would to the shelves at her head height, he selects her favorite book and turns to face her, beaming.

Even from her limited experience, his appearance is every bit a human’s.

* * *

 The wood flooring is cool against her feet in the heat of summer. Locking the door behind her, Mary apologizes to her mother.


End file.
